400 Days Since
by slang-fortunes
Summary: John has been counting the days since Reichenbach. He's also been talking to his dead best friend- but he know's it's just a coping mechanism. If he were being honest, he'd admit he was more angry at Sherlock than anything.
1. 302 Days Since

The candlelight felt heavy and absolutely wrong. Sitting across the table from John, a young woman sat within the halo of the light, her slender legs against his under the table. She smiled at him but it looked distant- some kind of signal beaming in from another part of the world; fuzzy and muffled. "The food is delicious," She told him, all soft-voiced. "How did you know I liked Thai?"

"I didn't." John muttered into his drink. **Sherlock had liked Thai**. In fact, Sherlock had introduced him to this restaurant, within weeks of meeting him. "But, it was a lucky guess." He added after realizing how rude he must've sounded. He mentally slapped himself- he should know better by now; it had been three-hundred-and-two days since, he ought to know better than to frequent places he and his flatmate and frequented together, especially in company. Especially in the company of women he was attempting to hold a dating relationship with.

_But, you know it's not going to work. Don't be an idiot_. He could still imagine the way Sherlock would react to this- still hear his voice in his head as if it was just coming from a few feet off. He had always been able to hear it- from the first day since onward. It had gotten to the point where he had stopped psychoanalyzing it: yes, he heard the voice of his dead best friend- only in his thoughts, of course. He even responded to it, mostly silently, but sometimes out loud. And, honest to god, he stopped caring how crazy it sounded.

_And why won't it? Angie is nice, you know. And a model_. He held back a laugh at the imagined look on Sherlock's face. John- dating a model. Certainly, he'd have something to say about that.

_Because she's boring. Completely and utterly stupid- all eyelash batting and bumping her knee against yours. Mating tactics. She's just thinking about tonight: she's so pathetic, afraid of being alone. You can see it in the way she leans in- desperate. Her smile, it's too tight; her laugh, too high-pitched. She's under pressure to find a nice guy to bring home to mother_. He would be sneering, if this was reality. But it wasn't, and John simply imagined him sighing, a neutral expression on his face.

John hissed. _Alright, that's enough. I don't have to listen to this._

_Oh, you don't? Fine, then stop listening. - It's not that easy, is it? The truth is: you don't want to stop listening. You don't want to stop listening because, no matter what you try to tell yourself, you're not done with this. You're not done with me. You can't accept that- if you stop listening- you'll have nothing left of me. _It was unnerving. Even when his conversations with Sherlock were all in his head, John was still left speechless. He groaned. If Sherlock hadn't been so- idiotic; hadn't gone and offed himself, this wouldn't be happening. He would be sitting back at 221B listening to Sherlock's manic violin playing and constant muttering. He would still be spending sleepless nights under lamplight, running the streets, chasing crimes.

Yes. This had been all Sherlock's fault. John could still remember watching the man, feet half on the ledge of the building, half off, his phone pressed against his ear. John was on the receiving end of that call, listening to a hollow admittance of guilt- he was a fraud, he claimed (John would never believe it)- but his eyes; his eyes said something different. They had been locked with his flatmate, almost a life or death staring contest- definitely some sort of desperate challenge, in his very last moments. His eyes were pleading with John, as if they were trying to tell him something his mouth could not. But, John was not a mind reader and the most painful aspect of this whole ordeal was the notion that he would never know what Sherlock was trying to tell him.

He had tried to find the truth. His mind still incredibly raw, he had tried to probe Mycroft for information just after the funeral. "You have to know something." John had begged- he wasn't above it.

"John," He had spoken with _that_ voice- the one people take on when speaking with the prime recipient of grief, "I know how hard this is for you- I do. But I know nothing more than you; in fact, I probably know considerably less. I was just his brother. You were his sole confidante, you were everything to Sherlock." In that moment, John had just wanted with every fibre of his being to hit him. He didn't want to be reminded that he had been this genius' _everything_. He knew that. God, Sherlock used to be his _everything_- and now he wasn't.

"You- you bastard. You sold him out, Mycroft. You sold him fucking out! You have to know something- what did he mean?" When he just received a quiet, pitying look, he expelled a breath. He lowered his voice. "At least tell me this; tell me that you don't believe Sherlock was a fraud."

Mycroft actually laughed- loud, but quick. "Sherlock was many things: he was too cruel, perhaps he may have even been a borderline sociopath- he certainly could be an arse. But, he never was a fraud. I don't know what he told you during that phone call, John, but just remember that _you_ were his last call. Sherlock spoke in riddles and rarely ever said the truth outright. But whatever he was trying to say- he wanted you to hear it." And he had left John standing there, feeling numb, drowning in the realization that he would never know.

Even now, three-hundred-and two days since, he still needed to scream- to yell at Sherlock for ruining his life. But, he managed to keep his thoughts measured. _This is all your bloody fault. _

_**So? **_

John could not explain why his blood was boiling. He knew it wasn't real. He knew it was completely his imagination, a coping mechanism. But, grief personified or not, Sherlock still managed to make him so fucking angry. **"Jesus Christ, can't you take some responsibility for once!"**

It took him roughly five seconds to realize he said that out loud.

* * *

John was curled up in the foetal position on the sofa when Mrs Hudson finally forced her way in. "John, Dear, I thought you had a date tonight?" She shut the door softly behind her and sat on the very edge of the cushion- a hand on John's shoulder.

"I went. We didn't- well, we didn't hit it off." He replied blandly. He decided to leave out the fact that he had shouted aloud at his dead best friend in the middle of the restaurant and left swiftly in embarrassment after admitting to having a relatively severe case of Tourette's syndrome. He exhibited not prior signs of Tourette's, he had thought to himself, but Angie wasn't a doctor.

"You know what? Sherlock was a good man, he really was. But, he had such a problem with being bossy. He's still bossing you around, even now." She gave him a sympathetic look that John just wasn't in the mood for.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"All I'm trying to say is that you need to live your life. You can't lie around here all day waiting for him to turn up and give you directions on how to move on. Though, he'd probably be the only person on Earth who could've given you a scientific formula for letting someone go." She gave his shoulder one final pat and headed down the stairs. John told himself he was listening to her soft footsteps fade, but he was really straining to hear any echoes of those heavier ones that used to trample up and down.

"You really fucked me over tonight." He was alone, so he said it to the ceiling.

_For the best, John. She wouldn't have entertained you for too long. I believe I've done you both a favour._

John exhaled sharply. "You really fucked me over- period."

There was excruciating silence. John never understood why he put himself through the same social torture as if Sherlock was actually alive. But, finally, after a few moments: _I know. I'm sorry_.

"You should be." And then, for added effect, he grabbed the gun off the coffee table, aimed steadily, and fired it at the smiley face in the wall. "What are you so fucking happy about?"


	2. 310 Days Since

It was habit that forced John to put two cups of tea out in the morning. He set one for himself on the table, where he would read the paper in silence. The other he would put on Sherlock's untouched desk, beside his microscope. Mrs Hudson had wanted to donate it to a local school- along with all the other science equipment- but John just couldn't part with it. He let all the petri dishes, flasks, and beakers go. But it was just too soon for the microscope. It was only three-hundred-and-ten days since.

"We're out of milk." He told the empty room.

_I'm sure you blame me for that_.

"I do. You never get a new carton when you drink the last of it."

_I find I'm not drinking too much milk these days, John_.

John didn't reply, but still caught a harsh breath in his throat. He should be passed this by now. He began to focus closely on going through the motions: two mugs out, pour the tea from the kettle, put two teaspoons of sugar in one and nothing in the other, place the sugared drink at the desk and sit down with his own. Good, now read the paper.

Sherlock clearly realized that his own death was still a touchy subject. _Anything –not boring?_ John could just imagine him sitting on the sofa, one leg over the other, violin just under his chin.

"Well, the French elections just finished."

_Was there a murder?_

"No."

_Boring. Next_. He proceeded to give commentary on the entire newspaper, which Sherlock found excessively dull. Finally, his false companion just sighed. _Why don't you get up and go somewhere, John. Really, this –monotony- is just too much. _

"I have nowhere to go-"

_You're out of milk, aren't you? Go to the grocery store. It'll at least get you out of here for a while. _At least in his head, Sherlock was concerned for his wellbeing. Though, if he had been in life, he wouldn't have jumped in the first place.

"I'm really not in the mood-"

_If you're lonely, take the skull. I found him to be excellent company. _

And that was how John Watson ended up wandering around Sainsbury's with a human skull in his right hand. If anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary, they certainly didn't mention it.

* * *

In another part of the city, a man in a long, black coat stepped out of an alleyway. He took to the street with a rapid pace, almost at a jog. He tried to move fast- he was doing it on purpose. He couldn't be recognized here. He slipped just as quickly through a revolving door attached to a building that was clean and vacant-looking. Governmental.

For all his effort to move about unnoticed on the street, he strolled casually up to the large centre desk. "Sherlock Holmes," he spoke soft and swift to a young receptionist, who seemed swayed by his air, "To see Mycroft Holmes."

"Um, do you have an appointment?" She stuttered over her own nervousness. Sherlock would have pointed it out, except he was- in his own way- doing the same thing. He kept the same cool affront, vacant like the skyscraper's face, but inside he was squirming.

Before he could reply, a buzz came from the telephone sitting to the girl's right. She answered and said nothing. Reverberating beyond the receiver, he heard _"Send him up, Anna."_ He expelled a breath and nodded to the receptionist as he took the elevator up, not even waiting for her to relay the message.

He burst into the office on the twelfth floor. "So, the British government is taking appointments, is it?" He deadpanned, his arms crossed, staring at the man behind a much more official looking desk.

"As it appears, yes," Mycroft returned coolly, but adhered a small smile to his face. "I'm doing well, thank you. And yourself?"

Sherlock did not answer, though he did admit to himself that he'd never once been so happy to see his older brother. He walked briskly to the chair nearest the desk but did not sit. He leant his elbows against it. "How's John?" That was the first order of business, really. _John._ His best friend; the best friend he led to believe that he had committed suicide to escape his fraudulence (which was also false), the best friend he had tried so desperately protect, _the best friend he would probably never see again. _

Mycroft didn't even seem surprised that this was Sherlock's first question. He sighed. "He misses you terribly, of course. I went to check up on him a few times- he was so distraught, I'd considered telling him the truth. I didn't, of course, but I considered it. But he is alive and well- as well as he can be."

"Where is he?" Sherlock felt what had become a customary clench in his chest.

"221 B Baker's Street. He never left. Didn't really change anything, either. But, more importantly, I must congratulate you on the takedown of Moriarty's crime ring. It had been quite the thorn in our side for some time- Mummy would be proud."

"Yes, well, I had considerable free time, given that you successfully sold my life to a crime lord." Sherlock had the right to feel some spite, he figured.

"I can see you're still upset," Mycroft always spoke like a therapist- and that irritated Sherlock beyond belief. "Perhaps a trip to Baker's Street might improve your mood? I assume you wouldn't head back before speaking to me. John and Mrs Hudson are in no danger, now. You are free to go back."

Sherlock had never once considered returning to Baker's Street. He never thought he'd have the chance. He looked grimly at his hands for a moment, allowing himself an unexpected moment of reverie. After he had left London three-hundred-and-ten days ago, he had considered taking his life in earnest. But, of course, he couldn't. He had a job to do first- destroy the crime ring, which took him nearly a year and several false identities, plane tickets, and the like. He hadn't the time to consider it. Afterwards, the thought crossed his mind, again- but he again squashed it. He told himself that he would only die in _his_ city, in London. Which was why he was here: he needed to see John, but seeing as he probably wouldn't be able to do that, hearing about him via Mycroft was the next best thing. "I'm not going back to Baker's Street."

"Hmm. That's- unexpected. Why not?" His brother had one eyebrow raised in a way that, unbeknownst to Sherlock, mirrored a look he had perfected.

"John's better off now. He's safer- he can move on. Maybe get one of those _girlfriend_ things he wants so much." Sherlock managed to make the last part ironic.

Mycroft chuckled. "Yes, he has certainly tried. However, he's still quite unsuccessful." That made Sherlock both incredibly happy and deeply unhappy. But, the emotions could not be so easily understood off the cuff and he hadn't the time to dwell on them now.

"He was always so dreadful at dating-" Sherlock let the sentence trail off. His mind was still on the imminent actions- he decided he needed to take one last tour of the city. "I really must be going." He tried not to sound too distracted.

"Must you? I could always send for some coffee-"

"Thank you, but I really must be off. Keep looking after John for me." Sherlock tried to keep his deep breaths imperceptible as he passed his brother and headed out the door. Mycroft watched him go, overwhelmingly suspicious and quite aware of _exactly_ what his brother had planned. He always did. As soon as he was out the door, Mycroft picked up the desk phone and ordered him be followed. He then pulled out his Blackberry and placed a call.


	3. 311 Days Since

Sherlock had always thought it funny that so few people outside of London knew that famed "London Bridge" was actually the Tower Bridge. As he stood on the very edge of it, staring off into the skyline of a city that he considered himself in complete ownership, he chuckled at the irony of it all. How the real London Bridge was basically a cement slab supported by beams- an ugly creation, mere functionality- and the beautiful architecture upon which he was standing was fated to be immortalized under another's name. It was a fraud. A fraud like he was.

That was not to say that Sherlock had ever falsified; the cases had been real (though, he was certain Detective Donavon probably leapt with glee upon discovering that he had, in fact, admitted to being a liar- she had always suspected as much). The deduction was real- so real that it left its own residual ache in thinking that those he cared about thought this ability (which, at times, seemed entirely above and apart from himself) was a lie. No, he was a fraud because he told John that he was. And John's opinion was the only one that truly mattered to him. _If John thought he was a fake, he might as well be a fake._

But the night air was cold and it cracked at him like a whip. It was biting, the sting felt right. It kept him feeling alive; it was like residue from the thrill of the chase, the high that was left over. He indulged it. He let it exhilarate him. Watching the reflection of an entire city of lights play upon the Thames, he thought about how _lovely_ it would be to die there.

A morbid thought, he recognized. He could almost hear John: _stop being such a melodramatic idiot and get away from that edge._ But, he wouldn't listen to him- he never really did, not when it came to his chidings, so why would he start now? But, perhaps, lovely wasn't the right word. **Just**. It would be just to die there, to let his last sight be the river and the lights and his breath visible. It would certainly be beautiful.

But, he was getting sentimental. There was no room for sentimentality in his demise; no, he wouldn't allow it. He lived and preached the Gospel of Deduction. Science. Human emotions got in the way; his theory was proven when he allowed himself to attribute some of that humanity to John Watson. Had he not have become so thoroughly attached to John, none of this would have mattered. Granted, he would still have jumped- while he considered himself the pinnacle of selfishness (of which he had no regrets), he would not have allowed the only people in his life that weren't complete wastes of oxygen (those being John and Mrs Hudson) die for him. But he would have jumped for _real._ He had always waited for death, the last mystery. He certainly wouldn't have been bored.

However, it was the emotion that kept him going. He needed to stay alive- long enough to get rid of Moriarty's operatives, to ensure none of them would go after John. He would make the world safe for him- then he would end it.

And as he stood on the bridge, he wondered if the fall would be different if he knew the destination was final.

* * *

John had been standing at the self-service checkout, the skull under his arm as he tried to ensure all the items of his shopping got into the plastic bags under the pressure of the automated voice's urgency. He was still a bit touchy after that one time, almost two years ago, that he had been maliciously embarrassed by the chip and pin machine while trying to get groceries. Sherlock's groceries, no less.

He could still remember Sherlock's face when he recounted the story. The way his lips twitched, fighting a smile, as he sent him off with his debit card.

_Thinking of me fondly, now, are you? Now, I know you miss me._

'No. I just hallucinate these conversations because I couldn't stand you and was just waiting for you to off yourself.'

_Still in a bad mood? I thought the fresh air would do you good. You never used to be so negative._

John was about to give a solidly snarky retort when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was the first time in months that he had gotten a call while he was out (that was mainly because he was rarely out and the only phone calls he received were from his sister and were mainly unwanted attempts to check up on him). He kept on carrying his phone in his pocket at all times, though, as if he was waiting for something. As if he was waiting for Sherlock to text and tell him that this was all a sick joke, a long-term study in the human reaction to grief.

He fumbled to answer it. "Hello?" He hadn't bothered to check the caller ID, because it was probably just an automated call or a telemarketer. He so rarely got calls. There was the briefest pause on the other end.

"John, this is Mycroft. I need you to step outside- you may want some privacy for this conversation." John had some doubts- and plenty of questions (and a few choice words), seeing as he had only spoken to Sherlock's brother once after the funeral- but took his word for it. Perhaps it was through being with Sherlock that he had learned not to question strange occurrences such as these, because Sherlock had always known what was happening and would tell him in due time.

"Alright, I'm outside. What is it?" He didn't even wonder how Mycroft knew he had been out- he was probably still under surveillance, he figured.

As he listened to Mycroft's smooth, unflinching voice, he felt his legs go numb. He dropped the skull and watched it roll on the sidewalk.


End file.
